


The Adventure Of The Dying Detective (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [114]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Cannibalism, Destiel - Freeform, Extortion, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Poisoning, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Inspector Henriksen's life hangs in the balance, and Sherlock has to be borderline (as in extremely) unethical in extracting the information needed to save his friend.





	The Adventure Of The Dying Detective (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [majesticduxk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/majesticduxk/gifts).



It was a bitterly cold September morning, and I was feeling particularly pleased. The reception to my latest story in the “Strand” magazine, that of our adventure in Bohemia, had been even more positive that I had hoped, and I was starting work on the Goode Brothers' case when Sergeant Baldur called round, for the first time in some months. He brought with him what was decidedly alarming news; Inspector Henriksen had been leading a raid on an opium den, and someone had stabbed him with a needle in the fracas that had followed. He was now seriously ill, and his doctors were working frantically to try to save him.

“It is my firm belief”, the young sergeant said, “that this was a set-up, to make sure that the boss was there that day. He had been leading the investigations into several high-profile crimes of late, and I think someone wanted him stopped. Possibly even someone with connections inside the force.”

“Pardon my being blunt”, I said, “but why not just shoot him?”

“Because this is infinitely worse”, the sergeant explained mournfully, an odd look on his handsome visage (Mrs. Harvelle's fake simpering as she had brought him up had been doubly annoying; the man was married, and I got more than enough of that with a certain blue-eyed scruff in the vicinity). “Morale at the station has gone through the floor, and the three investigations that the boss was leading have all but ground to a halt. Someone wanted him to suffer a slow, lingering death as a warning to the rest of us to back off.”

Sherlock looked at him shrewdly.

“Are you not afraid that involving us will cause them to come after you as well?” he asked gently. The sergeant shook his head.

“I live with the possibility of death every day on this job”, he said firmly. “Yes, I feel fear – but my determination to do what is right is strong enough for me to override that. If we all let our fears get the better of us, there would be anarchy!”

“But I might wager that maybe not all your fellow officers of the law feel the same”, Sherlock said shrewdly, and from the man’s blush, I knew that he had hit the nail on the head. “Do I presume that Henriksen’s doctors have been unable to identify precisely what is wrong with him?”

“They think that it is some venom from a tropical country, but they have no idea what!” our visitor said scornfully. “I am fast losing hope over the whole business.”

“Do not despair just yet”, Sherlock said comfortingly. “Whoever brought this into the country would surely have brought in the antidote as well, just in case the vile concoction be turned against them or someone they know. Criminals may be evil, but they are rarely stupid. Now, do you have details of the three cases that Henriksen was investigating?”

Sergeant Baldur nodded, and produced three brown files from his bag, two of which were quite bulky. 

“The small one is an assault on a customer at a grocery store in Euston Square”, he explained. “The boss was only investigating that one because the local station handled it so badly, the victim's wife submitted a formal complaint – unfortunately she knows someone in the government - and the top brass thought that putting an inspector from another station in charge would show that we meant business. A young fellow named Archibald Barrow was attacked by a man whilst shopping alone, apparently without motive. He was very badly injured, but has since recovered.”

“That sounds innocuous”, Sherlock said, “but we should not dismiss it. What else?”

Our visitor turned to the first of the two bulky folders.

“This is the most promising one, in my opinion”, he said. “A series of shady transactions in three independent banks, each of which collapsed soon afterwards. Definitely the sort of thing that a top criminal would want to avoid having the boss looking into. Those City businessmen are worse than many of the so-called criminals that we manage to catch and lock up, in my humble opinion!”

A sentiment that I was in full agreement with. I recalled that out friend Henriksen had oftentimes said much the same.

“I tend to agree”, Sherlock said. “And the final case?”

“This is one that I did not even know the boss was looking into”, he said. “Luckily his secretary, Sandra, mentioned that he had had two large files on his desk one day. I had to jemmy open his desk drawer to get at this. It is bad.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked. “What is it?”

“Two top policeman resigned in the East End recently, both having ‘unexpectedly' come into an inheritance”, he said. “In each case it resulted in a shuffling round of officers, as is pretty normal, except that two of the new constables who came in at the bottom had what one might call 'interesting' pasts. The chief's notes hinted that he was wondering if the old guard had been paid off, so that constables who could be trusted to 'look the other way' could be put in on certain beats.”

“I hope that it is not that”, I said fervently. “That would severely weaken my faith in the bobbies on the beat.”

“Three possible cases”, Sherlock mused. “But only one motive. Someone wants the Metropolitan Police to back away from or at least not look too closely at whatever nefarious scheme that they are undertaking, and that someone is prepared to go to considerable lengths to achieve that end. Considerable, because obtaining that venom would not have come cheap.”

“What about our recent acquaintance, Mr. Crowley?” I suggested. Sherlock shook his head.

“His sister is married to a policeman, and besides, this is not his style”, he said. “No, we are dealing with something else here. Something rather worrisome, I fear.”

He was to be proven all too right.

+~+~+

An outbreak of the winter flu decided to belie its name that year, and struck hard at London all through a bitterly cold September. I was kept busy with my regular clients as well as at the surgery, and I guessed that Sherlock was working towards solving our case as quickly as he could. The doctors had managed to cobble together a palliative which had slowed the venom’s progress, but Henriksen was still worsening. 

Finally, at the end of that long, cold month, we had a break. One of the men who had escaped the fracas in which Henriksen was infected chanced to be arrested for another offence, although predictably he refused to talk without a lawyer present, and would say nothing about what he knew. Sergeant Baldur was bitterly frustrated.

“He knows that whoever is ultimately behind this will either look after his family if he goes to jail with his mouth shut, or end them and him if he talks”, he sighed as he slumped into the fireside chair in Baker Street. “And that is enough to keep him silent, damn the man!”

Sherlock thought for a moment.

“Perhaps you are being too conventional in your approach”, he said mildly. “I have an idea which might persuade this person man to be a little more co-operative, at least as regards our mutual friend. What is the man’s name?”

“Garrod Robinson, and it took twenty-four hours just to get that much out of him. I think he has enough aliases to fill half a street!”

“Can you hold him until tonight?” Sherlock asked. The sergeant looked at him curiously.

“Yes”, he said slowly. “Why? What are you planning?”

“It is probably better that you do not know”, Sherlock said. “I hope to be able to communicate an address to you some time tonight, and you might try to arrange to have several men on call to go there. Armed officers would be highly advisable, in this instance. Be sure to release Mr. Robinson from the station at exactly six o'clock, and we shall see what happens.”

+~+~+

I had just one client that day, so I left for Homerton whilst Sherlock made whatever preparations he deemed necessary. When I returned, I found a message asking me to meet him at an old warehouse in the docks, and to come well wrapped up as we would be right down on the riverside. I complied, but when I arrived and met him, I got an awful shock.

“What _are_ you wearing?” I managed at last. He was dressed up like an old-fashioned colonial gentleman, a dapper white suit, cane and panama hat. It rather suited him, strange as it was. 

He smiled at me.

“Unfortunately I cannot have you at the centre of things, much as I would like to”, he said, a little ruefully, “but there are some offices which overlook where tonight’s 'fun and games' will take place, and you will easily be able to see and hear through the missing windows without being spotted. Though I think that the only person who matters may have more pressing concerns that being watched from on high!”

Thus unfairly piquing my curiosity, he led me into the warehouse. In the dim moonlight there seemed to be something large and black sitting in the middle of the floor. I stared incredulously at it, but I was not mistaken – it was indeed a giant cauldron. There was a ladder up the side, and even a smattering of straw around the base. Sherlock led me up the stairs and into an empty office, and I made myself comfortable and settled down to wait.

I had not, unfortunately, had the foresight to bring a book or some other method of passing the time, so the next half-hour passed slowly for me, until I heard the sound of a scuffle going on outside the warehouse. Shortly afterwards, four large black men came into view. They were dragging a short, scruffy fellow with them, but more noticeable was that all four of the black men appeared to be savages fresh from a jungle hunt, dressed in feathers, loincloths and very little else. I also noted that each had a rather large knife. Their victim was blabbering, and clearly terrified.

There was, I noticed for the first time, a large table with leather straps on it, presumably for the victim. The four savages ignored it for the moment and dragged the man up to where Sherlock was sat impassively on a huge chair that was almost a throne, raised as it was on a low dais. He looked almost disinterestedly down at the new arrival. Then he smiled a slow smile, and I once more gave thanks that this great man had never chosen to follow a life of crime. Because that smile was pure evil.

“Mr. Robinson”, he growled. “So nice of you to join us for dinner.”

“Dinner?” the man squeaked, looking fearfully around. The four men had retreated to barely a step away from him, as if ready to strike. The flash of steel from at least one knife glinted in the darkness.

“Of course”, Sherlock beamed. “Not quite your conventional dinner invitation, I am afraid. Because after all, there is every likelihood that you will _be_ dinner.”

The trapped men let out a pitiful moan.

“It really is all your own fault”, Sherlock said in a put-upon way, fanning himself with an expensive-looking paper fan. “The man you poisoned may be a policeman, and I am not overly fond of the law myself…..”

“I didn’t poison him!” the small man blurted out. “That was Alfie…”

Sherlock silenced him with a Look. The man shuddered.

“I am afraid that I tend to the opinion that accomplices in a crime are as guilty as the people that they assist”, Sherlock said flatly. “Naturally I myself abhor violence, but the dying man’s friends here…. well, they are, I believe the saying is in your country, another saucepan of fish.”

One of the four men emerged and prodded the prone man with a stick, and he whined piteously. Sherlock frowned slightly and tutted in the direction of the attacker, and the man quickly backed off.

“Now, I myself would be quite prepared to let my friends here have their way with you”, Sherlock said, “provided, of course, that I do not have to witness it. Cold steel unnerves me, and I so dislike the sight of blood. However, it is your happy and fortuitous circumstance that the poisoned man, as well as being a friend to these dear gentlemen, is also a passably close acquaintance of my good self, and I am loath to see him shuffle off this mortal coil before his time is up. Even, I suppose, if he must be a policeman for some reason. So, out of the kindness of my heart, I am prepared to offer you a most generous deal.”

The trapped man looked up hopefully. 

“I don’t know the big boss man”, he whined. “Really, I don’t!”

“But you know who keeps the antidote that would cure my acquaintance”, Sherlock said smoothly. “Or at the very least, you know who concocted this venom, and that knowledge alone would enable his doctors to make their own antidote. I need a name. Preferably, at least as regards your continued existence in this world, within the next sixty seconds.”

The man looked at the four savages, who had closed in around him.

“What’re they gonna do?” he asked. Sherlock sighed again.

“In their native land, it is custom to avenge the death of a friend by inflicting – your limited language does not have a word for it, but I think it can be translated as 'slow death' - on one of the people involved”, Sherlock said calmly. “They like to cut a number of non-fatal wounds in the victim’s body, then slowly boil them alive for several hours, to ensure that they suffer for as long as possible. I believe they managed to keep their last their victim alive for up to two days if I recall correctly; the fuel costs were quite considerable. Though I myself prefer not to be around when the screaming starts. Even ear-plugs tend to be ineffective against it, I have found.”

One of the black men surrounding the trapped man poked him again, then said something unintelligible to Sherlock. My friend merely gave him a long look, and the huge man whimpered and bowed his head, retreating quickly into the darkness. 

“It seems that they are quite keen to get started”, Sherlock said plaintively. “Ah well. If you cannot help me with my inquiries – Kintabe, do not make me come over and discipline you again! – then I suppose I will just have to let them have their way with you. So be it.”

He stood as if to leave, and the four savages closed in on their victim.

“No! Wait!”

Sherlock remained standing, as the man frantically took a scrap of paper and a pencil out of his pocket and hastily scribbled something down. One of the four men snatched it from him and took it to Sherlock, bowing twice before handing it over. Sherlock held the paper behind him, and someone invisible in the darkness took it. My friend then something unintelligible to the four men, who all bowed and took themselves off into the dark.

“Tea break?” the small man quipped. I was quite impressed that he could joke at a time like this. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Why would they do that?” he asked politely. “After all, they could be dining very soon." He paused briefly before adding, "on fresh meat!”

The trapped man sank into himself even further, moaning to himself.

+~+~+

It must have been about an hour later, when the sound of a drum began to echo softly around the warehouse. Sherlock looked up with a frown.

“Oh dear”, he said. 

I doubt that those two words have ever been uttered quite so ominously. The trapped man managed to look even more terrified.

“What is it?” he asked, quivering like a leaf.

“It seems that either they did not reach your man in time to save my acquaintance, or that he chose not to co-operate”, Sherlock said resignedly. “The drum is the final precursor to Stage One of the ritual.”

I had not thought it possible for the man to go any paler, but he did so. 

“Stage.... One?” he asked tremulously.

“Oh, did I not mention that?” Sherlock said airily. “Silly me! Yes, Stage One is where they put _you_ to death, as slowly and painfully as possible, as I described earlier. Stage Two is where they eliminate those of the first separation.”

“Separation?” the man said, clearly confused.

“Of blood”, Sherlock said. “You know, father, mother, sisters, brothers. Plus of course children, grand-children and whatnot. Thankfully they do not treat them to the same method as you, or I would have things to say about that. I do have standards, you know. Usually a quick knife across the throat as they are walking down the street tends to suffice. Most victims hardly feel a thing, so they tell me. I prefer not to press for details.”

“You… you would kill my whole family?” the man gasped.

“Well, not your dear wife, of course, as she is not blood,” Sherlock said. “And I must say, Mr. Robinson, that I really resent your use of the second person singular pronoun in that sentence. I have no intention of killing anybody. _You_ brought this solely on yourself, so _you_ must live with the consequences. Though as the drumming only lasts for about ten minutes as a rule, you will not be living with them for much longer!”

Even I shuddered at the lazy evil in that smile.

“No!” the man yelled. “You can’t touch my boys!”

“As I said, _I_ shall not be doing anything to them”, Sherlock said, taking out his pocket-watch and looking at it. “It is such a pity, really. I always told poor Henriksen that he would investigate someone one day who would take exception to his keenness, but he just would not listen. Now, he has paid the ultimate price. And so, very soon, shall you.”

“I can tell you why we were sent after him!” the man yelled. “Someone was setting up a string of bobbies in the East End who would look the other way when told. That stupid darkie kept sticking his damn nose in, so we were told to….. aaarrghh!!”

One of the black men, now adorned with tribal war-paint, had emerged silently from the shadows and was holding a large serrated blade like a scimitar over the captive. The small man was actually crying in fear.

“I really think that it is a little unwise of you to refer to one of my friends as a ‘darkie’, whatever that is”, Sherlock said coolly. “But congratulations.”

That simple word seemed to terrify the man even more.

“Wha... what do you mean?” he demanded. 

“Well, since you have told us which crime my friend was investigating, it will be easy to work out the person behind it”, Sherlock said. “Though I dare say, I do believe that they might be less than pleased at your having dropped them in it so spectacularly.”

“Have mercy!” the man begged. “I beg of you!”

Sherlock tutted in exasperation, and looked at his pocket-watch.

“Well, I suppose that since you have, in a way, _partially_ avenged my friend – Busir, put that down or I shall have to come over and have a Talk with you, and we both know how that will end, do we not?! – I suppose that I am morally obliged to show a sliver of gratitude”, Sherlock said reluctantly. “This really is incredibly vexatious. Hmm.”

The man before him was shaking. Sherlock pulled out what looked like a timetable, and examined it.

“There is a ship leaving the West India Docks at nine o’clock tomorrow morning”, Sherlock said, “The “Spirit of the South”. If you and your family can be on the quayside before then, I suppose that I could ask the captain if there is room for you. Nothing special, mind.”

The tallest of the huge men growled, and Sherlock barked something unintelligible at him. He sank to the floor at once, shivering in terror.

“Bad boy, Malto!” Sherlock said angrily. “You know full well that you _cannot_ have a piece of him for your collection; I have had cause to speak to you about that sort of thing before, have I not? I really cannot cope with opening my writing-desk and finding body parts in it _again_!”

The tall savage whined piteously and cowered as he stared up at him, clearly fearful of some form of retribution. Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him, and he shuffled back into the shadows, clearly glad to be away from that look. My friend then sighed in a put-upon manner, and turned his stare back to the small man grovelling on the floor before him.

“It is less than twelve hours until the ship sails, Mr. Robinson”, he said pointedly. “Unless you wish Kintabe to take you home?”

Kintabe looked positively gleeful at the prospect, his white teeth gleaming in the dark, and the small man screamed before fleeing through to where an open door was letting in the moonlight at the back of the warehouse. I waited until he had gone for some little time before descending to meet my friend, taking care to avoid the four savages.

Except that all four of them were now gathered around Sherlock, who was handing out money to each one. He grinned as I approached. 

“Doctor”, he smiled. “A most successful outcome.”

“Except for poor Henriksen”, I felt the need to point out. To my surprise he chuckled.

“Henriksen is fine”, he said. “He will make a full recovery. The address that Mr. Robinson’s so generously provided was raided less than fifteen minutes after he handed me the note, and Sergeant Baldur's telegram said that they had found the antidote and that it would have been administered to our friend by the time I read it.”

I smiled, but kept my distance from the four huge men. Sherlock laughed again.

“Sorry, John, I should have introduced you”, he said, pointing to each of the tall men in turn. “Meet Joseph, Frederick, William and Stephen.”

I stared incredulously at Kintabe, or 'Stephen' as he now apparently was. 

“The wife loves your articles in the “Strand”, sir”, he said politely, and he sounded like he was fresh from an elocution lesson. I was dimly aware that my mouth was hanging open, but my brain seemed to have temporarily lost all function.

“Stephen is a professor at London University”, Sherlock said, enjoying my discomfiture a little too much. “Frederick and William own a chain of fruiterer's in the East End, and Joseph runs his own painting and decorating firm.”

“More than just 'darkies', eh doctor?” Malto - Frederick said with a smile, and I finally pulled myself together.

“That was amazing!” I said. “I believed every bit of it!”

“I hope so”, Stephen said. “The wife will kill me if I can't get the paint off. But it's always a pleasure doing business with our friend Mr. Holmes. We'll go and change back to our normal clothes now, if that's all right, sir?”

“Quite all right”, Sherlock said with a smile, “and again, thank you all.”

The four men ambled off, chatting to each other. I shook my head, still stunned over it all.

“And Mr. Robinson?” I said.

“A new life in South Africa will probably suit him quite well”, Sherlock said, “especially once the criminal mastermind whose plans look set to unravel finds out it was he who talked.”

“Do you know who it was?” I asked.

His demeanour changed, becoming much more sombre.

“I am rather afraid that I do. It is that rising menace to society, Professor James Moriarty. We have frustrated his machinations this time, but the likes of him will keep trying.”

+~+~+

It was almost a month later that Sergeant Baldur called round to Baker Street. The set of his shoulders was very much that of a defeated man.

“It is bad news?” Sherlock asked. He nodded.

“We have been unable to pin anything on that blasted professor”, he said glumly. “He was too careful, and too far removed from the people that we could get at. But at least we removed those constables that he had planted at the stations in the East End, and the top brass are now on the lookout for any other such machinations.”

“You have frustrated his designs twice now”, I said. 

I would have thought that my friend would be pleased with such an achievement against so formidable an adversary, but instead he looked at me almost sadly.

“We may have won a couple of small-scale battles against this evil man”, he said gently, “but we are a long way from winning the war. If he ever establishes the sort of control that he so desires over the criminal activities that occur on a daily basis in this city, then the police may as well give up and go home. He will rule the place far more effectively and far more ruthlessly than a Bourbon monarch sitting on his Versailles throne!”

I shuddered. It was a grim picture.

+~+~+

Another precious gemstone would be the focus of our next case, which would take us for the first and not the last time to the beautiful Sussex Downs.


End file.
